Sold Me
by automated detour
Summary: Killing a best friend. (movie)


summary: this is my take on the storyline about Jimmy Weeks that was never included in the Punisher movie, but was in the novelization. i lost count of how many times I edited this thing. i modified the ending too. it flows better. 11/12/04

sold me

-

_How's work?_

After hearing that simple question it was like falling through time again, dragged violently through the spiteful path of memory lane and past the years that portrayed him as a good man without the sickness, without the divorce. It taunted him, it wanted to drive him insane, but he wouldn't give it the satisfaction. He pushed back the bile in his throat. His best friend came for a visit. A long time friend from out of high school and into adulthood had come to visit him. They were nearly inseparable back in the day, like salt and pepper, two wheels in a barrel, good old brothers, best chums, two peas in a pod. He loved him like a brother. Like his own kin. More than just buddies. His best friend. His best fucking friend who was pointing a goddamn gun right at him.

_how could this happen?_

His heart was pounding, threatened to explode right in his chest. Might as goddamn well. Within the boundaries of a few seconds he found himself recalling everything. And it always came back to one spot.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_Iraq. Khafji. long time ago._

_Get up, soldier. Get up now. Get up_, "GET THE HELL UP! HAUL YOUR MOTHERLOVIN ASS UP NOW!!" Jimmy Weeks hovered over the immobile body of his fallen comrade. His friend. _Shit._ He thought. The coppery smell and taste of iron was everywhere, settling in his nostrils, his eyes, his mouth. Lingering on his tongue. They were in the middle of a dustbowl, a crappy alternate reality were some twisted and malicious god got his kicks out of making the air, wind, mist, and any other conceivable means that carried oxygen completely out of sand and dirt. His eyes felt bone dry. He wanted to rip them out.

His comrade made a pathetic attempt to support himself up, there was a psychotic 'squishing' sound amidst the resonating booms of automatic fire and Weeks suddenly felt sick. His friend had been shot or grazed by a piece of shrapnel in the shoulder. Weeks didn't know which, but all he knew if he hadn't pulled his friend in when he did, the fucking Iraqi would have blown out his brains.

He was about to offer another phrase of encouragement when another mine exploded. Couldn't have been more then thirty yards behind...maybe closer because his whole world was swallowed in white. And that's when the blood came. Raining. Pouring. Spilling down in buckets. Too much. Oh god too much. Warm, hot, steaming solids of red. Oh god. Oh GOD. OH SHIT. WHY. STEAMING. He screamed with his mouth closed. STEAMING. STEAMING SHIT. GOD WHY. STEAMING. He didn't know who screamed louder, him or his fallen comrade, but they were both retching. Fighting to keep their mouths closed. Don't register it. He thought or screamed. Don't register it. Don't register it. Don't....Think of Gwen. _Register._ Think of ice cream. Gwen. _Don't. _Ice cream. Gwen. Gwen. Gwen. Gwen...ice cream...vanilla. Frozen snow...Don't.

No shrapnel. Not dead. He moved off his comrade. _Had to move. Had to move_. Had to keep at it. He stopped dead. His comrade was face down surrounded in chunks of (_visceral_.) red. Lying in the (_steaming shit_) red that had just poured down on them. _He_ wasn't moving. Couldn't find his neck. He dug. Dug through it to find a pulse. (_No.) _Too much. (_No) _red. Covered in...(_Please)._ Wasn't moving. (_No.)_ Way too much (_No._)Red. (_No.) _Meat. _No!_

And then there was none. Jimmy started choking back tears. Or vomit. Or both. The soldier before him was dead. Another K.I.A. to report to the I-Don't-Give-A-Shits. The stupid sonuvabitch would have still been alive if he hadn't chosen to be such a righteous prick at the wrong moment. It seemed like a million hours ago but in truth it only took place in the course of twenty minutes ago.

_flash._

They had been making good progress. The both of them. Taking down every armed offending piece of terrorist turd in the ruined city. That's when they crossed paths with another unit. Or the last surviving remnants of one. Tall blonde man. Weeks could make out the name "Mars". Major. The Major was a little whacked out after losing three of his men. He was going to do in the unarmed man on his knees begging for mercy. Weeks didn't give. Mars could do in the prick if he wanted. The guy on his knees was a terrorist. Probably putting on a sympathy act just because he ran out of bullets. But Weeks' comrade thought differently.

"That's enough. I'm a Sergeant." His comrade had approached the Major calmly and started preaching that shooting armed prisoners of war was a crime.

"Yeah?" Mars said sarcastically. "And I'm a major. So now we've been introduced. Up yours buddy."

Mars didn't want to hear it and Weeks knew it. If his Sergeant friend kept it up, the terrorist wouldn't be the only guy that Mars would be shooting.

"This little dick killed three of my men!" The Major spat in the young Sergeant's face. "And I want revenge. So you can take those codes of conduct and honor and all that Delta Force bullshit and shove them up your ass!"

It happened so quickly. The Iraqi, the helpless little prisoner of war that the Sergeant had stood up for chose that moment to tackle clumsily into Mars, causing the gun to misfire and shoot out his own foot. He didn't seem to care as he wrapped his arms tightly around Mars' waist, causing the string on one of the Major's grenades to be ripped off. Everything went sour after that.

Weeks screamed his friend's name and, acting on instinct, managed to pull his fellow soldier behind the remains of a broken edifice. His friend just barely escaped with his ass though. The material on the young Sergeant's shoulder was ripped and drenched in red. Grenade shard must've got in. Or grazed it. Couldn't tell. Weeks realized if he had pulled him in any slower the shard would have hit his friend's jugular. Another piece of shrapnel had lodged itself in the side of the Sergeant's thigh.

"YOU STUPID ASSHOLE. YOU STUPID ASSHOLE!" Weeks had trouble finding his words.

"Thanks, Jimmy. You saved my life." his friend managed a weak smile, letting him know that he'd survive. Weeks found no humor in it. He didn't find it at all amusing.

"Don't waste it." Weeks shook his head. But he really wanted to say something along the lines of, you bleepin' bleep.' That hadn't been his friend's brightest of moves. Despite the Sarge's claims, the guy could barely walk and it was only a matter of time until he lost enough blood. He figured they would make it if they kept low. He wasn't anticipating walking in on an attack though. Nor did he expect for his friend to get shot somewhere for a second time. Yeah. Everything fell to shit.

_and..._

Jimmy rested his hand on the corpse's matted head. The man lying on the ground had been his good friend. Hell, his best. They had joined up for military on the same day. Senior year in high school. Summer. They kicked so much ass together. Saying that he'd miss him would be even below an understatement. Weeks had been his best man at his wedding. What would he tell his wife? Fighting back the urge to wail, Weeks slid his hand over his friend's back to unlatch the strap to his rifle...and nearly pissed his pants when the corpse's hand shot up and grabbed his forearm.

"Not dead yet." Came a half conscious gurgled response. Weeks didn't know whether to laugh or cry or release his bowels as he helped his friend get the..._red meat _off. Weeks put his mind in a different place (_Don't register)_ but the stuff (_Don't register._) was still warm and (_ice cream_) wouldn't come off. He heard a noise then (_Gwen_) coming from his fallen friend. It was _inhuman_ and thick and Jimmy quickly put his friend up to a sitting position and watched him barf his brains out.

"You stupid, lucky sonuvabitch. I can't believe you." Needless to say, Weeks had been scared out of his wits for a moment. And not because a corpse that he'd presumed dead suddenly jumped to life a few moments ago. "Why do you have to be such a righteous dumbass? You could have been killed twice, you damned retard. The guy was a terrorist. A lot good it did the major. Even if he was a bastard. You should have just let him kill that prick. "

"We're not in the revenge business." came the strained reply.

"But of all things Holy, what was I gonna tell your wife?! Next time you have the urge to preach about the honor code to a half mad grunt that's dealing with a terrorist, I'll shove those documents up your ass my self." Weeks couldn't believe how much trouble his friend had gotten himself into before. "I love you, man. You know that."

"Yeah. Sorry to tell you you're not my type though," The young Sergeant said as he wiped the bile and drool string from his mouth. "But thanks. For saving my life back there." There was another explosion somewhere, this time further away. They both instinctively lowered themselves and lied in the _red shit_ again to recalibrate and reload their hardware.

"Hey, don't mention it. I'll tell you something though." Weeks lowered his voice. "If I get through this fucking shit, I'm becoming a fucking vegetarian."

"You better read some books too. Learn yourself some new adjectives." his friend joked.

Weeks laughed softly. It was true. He had a five-year-old daughter and a lovely wife waiting for him back home. And he had been stressed out way too much, but who could blame him really? He'd start talking nicer the sooner he left this shit hole. He clasped hands with his comrade then in a sort of semi high-five just because he couldn't go playfully punching the guy's shoulders without injuring him. That's when they came up with the secret handshake. Weeks thought it was a stupid but endearing little move that consisted of a half assed high five and placement of the hands on top of the other as if they had been boys trying to figure out who was up at bat first.

_He remembered they managed to get out with all of their limbs intact. And still considered their_ silly handshake an integral friendship code that had followed them all the way into their careers in the FBI later on much to the amused annoyance of their co-workers.

_but there was more still. coming in like bullet holes of light through a dark curtain. _

"What the hell is this?" Weeks asked with a smile as he caught the red velvet box his friend had tossed him one day.

"It's a goddamn engagement ring. I just couldn't contain myself any longer." Came the sarcastic reply.

"Aw. You shouldn't have. How am I gonna break the news to Gwen now?"

"You'll manage."

Weeks laughed. They always fucked around like this. He opened the box and almost choked. There snug inside was a top of the line, stainless steel, diamond and gold inset clock face, military issue Rolex. "Holy shit. You really shouldn't have..."

"Small payment for saving my life."

"Ah, hell. That Iraqi would have missed anyway." Weeks felt humbled.

"He was three feet away."

_there was laughing then. and smiles. _

They were having a hell of time in Puerto Rico. Drunk on laughter. They were squished in the photo booth; Gwen and his friend's wife squeezed between them when they realized it wasn't going to work. They had to go in two's and three's.

_squeezing in to get the shot. laughter through the veil._

"She's having a baby." A statement out of the blue during lunch one day.

"No shit? Congrats, man! It's about damned well **time** _that_ happened." Weeks noticed the nervous tone in his friend's voice only after giving him a slap on the back. "Hey. Don't sweat it. You'll make a fine daddy. Parenthood is pretty easy to fall into. This is coming from experience. It's falling _out_ of parenthood is the problem. Or at least that's what I heard. Gwen and I haven't gotten there just yet. Heh. How do you feel?"

"Well, besides me being a little scared shitless, we've been talking about it nonstop. We're both pretty excited."

"You should be. You hoping for a boy or girl?"

"No preference. Just a healthy baby."

"Of course, man."

"We also want you to be the godfather."

"Oh man. Oh man. Hold up. Wait. Heh. Let me think about this." Weeks smiled. "Seriously??"

"No. I just said that for no fucking reason at all."

"Hah. Well I'm really happy for you. And honored, man. I mean, I'm gonna be a godfather. That's even cooler."

"Thanks Jim. You don't know how happy that makes me feel right now."

"Hey. I'm just happy things didn't fall to shit when they did. Not for the fact that my _best friend_ is alive and is gonna have a baby pretty soon, which I'm gonna be the Uncle of. No, I just wouldn't have gotten **this** Rolex then." He grinned in jest, holding up his left wrist where he wore his friend's gift proudly.

_bullet holes of light that started to bleed._

So when did things really start falling to shit, Jimmy? When the wife started complaining about your FBI career? How about the arguments every time you got home? And the divorce? After Gwen won child custody?

He wasn't exactly sure, but he had hit rock bottom real fast after Gwen and Nicole moved out. Started drinking more. Gambling. The whole nine yards. It was like a disease. Couldn't find a remedy for his depression so he tried a whole other outlet. And it worked. For a while. So what if he lost twenty-seven grand and had to sell everything he owned to keep himself alive? He had nothing left to lose as far as he knew. No family to come home to. No bitch in his face 24/7 when he did. So what if he had lost everything in some shit gambling joint? And so the fuck _what_ if he borrowed the rest of the money from the federal locker to pay off the rest of his debts? There were plenty of other agents who took stuff from it when they needed to. To get high and blow out their brain cells after a shit ass day on the job. It didn't concern him. And he could have gone on like that until he was forced to live in a cardboard box. No one knew about that side of him. Not even his best friend.

_and bleed._

It didn't quite hit him until that dumbass kid, Robert Saint died in his best friend's last undercover op. Saint as in the son of Howard Saint. Robert Saint, the little fuck whom, at the very last minute, got involved with the dirty arms deal they were going to bust. Weeks had almost peed himself when he recognized the name on the identification the EMT had given him. He had been right to anticipate problems. It wasn't until the Toro Brothers, the little big shit owners of the gambling spot, cornered him after he lost everything at the tables again one night, telling him they knew all his blighted secrets about the federal locker, and brought in the big Kahuna himself that Weeks knew he was in deep shit.

"Sit down." Saint had told him. "If I wanted to kill you, it would be done. But you're more important to me alive."

Weeks sat like a good little dog. If his gambling problem got out, there was no doubt his ass would be kicked all the way to jail.

"Agent Weeks, two nights ago I asked you about a man named Otto Krieg. Can we open that inquiry again?"

Jimmy had suddenly felt as if his heart collapsed into itself and imploded. What the hell was he going to do? His friend's cover had nothing to do with Saint's stupid boy's death. It was a freak accident. And he was in a damned rut right now.

"I don't know what I can tell you, Mr. Saint. The guy's dead. That's for certain. I can find a file for him." He started spouting off the bull, hoping to God that Saint would buy it.

"Agent Weeks." Saint said in a retired voice. "I'm not a fool. Don't treat me like one. Otto Krieg."

"You got two hundred g's worth of problems. Don't make it worse." Mike Toro said, stepping beside Saint like he was one important prick.

"Yeah. And don't forget the bitch slapping, Weeksie. You gotta consider that too," his brother added.

Weeks wished he had been packing then. Because Joe and Mike Toro would have been eating lead from their asses. But he was helpless now. Just another worthless smear on the road of life. And he would be in a world of trouble pretty soon if he didn't come up with something quick. One look into Howard Saint's face and it drained any hope of brilliance he had in him. He found himself thinking about Otto Krieg. His friend's cover. His comrade. He remembered he had saved this friend's life back in Iraq. He had been a hero then. But now...now his own life was on the line and Weeks found himself thinking it was high time his friend saved _his_. He drew a deep breath, tasting vomit in his throat.

"His name's not really Otto Krieg..."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_now_

Jimmy Weeks needed a drink. He came back to his dumpy home for just that and some sleep. Nowadays he was just functioning on pills and alcohol. He undid his holster and tossed it on the couch with his jacket. He went to his cabinet and had just finished popping the cork when he heard the rustle from the living room. As if someone had sat down in his armchair. He felt his skin crawl suddenly and nearly screamed when a somewhat unfamiliar voice asked him "_how's work?_"

Jimmy turned around to see his best friend sitting down in his armchair. Relaxed and sitting casually. He was dressed in black, was wearing a silly leather trench coat over and even more ridiculous looking shirt with a huge white skull head on it.

"Hello, Jimmy," his old friend greeted him, but there was something dead and incredibly scary about his tone.

Weeks saw that his friend's eyes seemed to reflect the question he just asked a few minutes ago. _how's work? hello Jimmy. how was work? how was fucking work, you fucking scumbag, Jimmy? _His friend was wearing the Rolex he had given him at his retirement party. It was the Rolex that was the exact copy of the one that this same friend had gotten him for saving his life once upon a time. He noticed the gun then. Unwavering and pointing at him.

"Why's that gun pointed at me?" Weeks asked. The room was starting to get hot all of a sudden.

"It's how I say hi to everyone these days." his friend smiled as if it were a joke. But the gun didn't move.

Weeks didn't smile back. _Okay. _He thought. _A game. I can play._ "You want a drink?"

"You do." his friend said flatly.

"You got that right." Weeks slammed down the bottle of whiskey and felt around in his pocket for his lucky chip. "So what's up, Frank?" he asked, knuckle rolling the chip. "I thought you were leaving town."

Frank Castle. The man sitting casually in his armchair. The man that was dressed as if he were part of some Goth band. The man that he had once **saved**. The man that was his best friend who **still **had that gun psychotically pointing at **him**...just stared back. "What happened to your Porsche, Jimmy?"

Weeks noticed, not for the first time that his friend's voice sounded deeper somehow (_inhuman) _harsher. Like it had been (_possessed) _coated with _(bile)_ something thick. Being alone with his friend gone stranger in the dark room only emphasized it more. He pushed back the chill that was trying to run up his spine and tried to act nonchalant. Letting the question _what the fuck could have happened to him? _bypass his cognitive process before it could be snatched up and brooded on. "I told you." Weeks said. "I buy American now."

"I didn't see your fishing boat outside. That was built thirty-five miles down the coast. That's not American enough for you?" his friend asked.

Jimmy didn't like this at all. He needed another drink. "You know what they say about owning a boat, Frank? Your two happiest days are the day you buy it and the day you sell it."

"Uh-huh. And do they say that about TVs and stereos?" Castle looked around the empty pit of an apartment.

Jimmy felt his knees go weak. He wanted to run to his friend and tell him how the nightmares wouldn't stop since he found out about the massacre in Puerto Rico, wanted to tell him how he had been dying inside ever since. Wanted to (_oh god. I'm so fucking sorry.) _Ask for forgiveness. But he knew he'd find none. Not after what he did. Not after looking into Castle's _(dead) _eyes. No. There was none. He started rolling the chip faster.

"And what about wristwatches, Jimmy? They say the same about those too? I remember giving you that watch for saving my life. I thought it meant something." Castle said.

Weeks felt like shit. He had sold his friend's gift of gratitude a while ago to pay off his debts. To pay off that crap gambling joint. To feed the fucking Toros. God. He was pathetic. "I had my money in high-tech stocks, Frank. My broker kept telling me don't sell, don't sell. What can I say? I'm an old soldier. I followed orders and now I'm broke."

Castle shook his head, not buying that bullshit for a moment. "I told you not to gamble, Jimmy. Didn't I tell you that?"

Jimmy felt his hands sweating. His lucky chip slipped from his hand and rolled across the floor, stopping at his friend's boot. Castle leaned over to pick it up. To look at it. And Jimmy saw his friend's eyes widen.

_Shit. The chip._ Jimmy thought. It was from the Toros' place. It had the bull emblem on it.

"Okay, Frank." Jimmy gave in. "Okay. You're right. I was gambling. A lot. Gambling's like alcoholism, you know? It's a disease. Before you can cure yourself, you have to hit bottom. And I did, Frank. I really did. Like a fucking rock. I lost everything. My Porsche. God. And the boat. You know how much I loved that boat. But I swear. I'm done now. Gave my problems over to a Higher Power. I'm clean, Frank." Weeks risked a smile. "Goddamn broke, but I'm clean."

His friend studied him for a long hard minute and then smiled, placing his gun down on the table. "Okay, Jimmy. I'm glad to hear it. Pour me a drink, would you?"

Weeks felt a wave a relief. This was the Frank he knew. "Sure. Whiskey?"

"You know it."

Castle didn't get up from the armchair. He gestured over to the empty glass cabinet. "The CDs too, Jimmy? Jesus. You had a great collection."

"Yeah, I know." Weeks said as he poured his friend a glass and started back to the table.

"You know what's funny?" His friend said. "A bank can repossess everything you own—except your phone. They can get a court to hold you to ten dollars worth of calls, but they can't take your phone."

"Yeah." Weeks said not knowing what his friend was getting at. "Yeah, that's funny." he set the drinks down next to the gun on the table.

"It was a good thing for me the bank didn't repossess your phone, Jimmy, right?" Castle asked. The day you called, warned me about getting out of town? I never would have gotten that message if the bank had taken away your phone."

"Hey, for you, I would have used the office phone." Jimmy said smiling, but he suddenly felt on the edge again. _What the fuck was up with his friend asking all these questions?_

"What I don't get though," His friend continued "is this. Why did you call me that day, Jimmy? Why didn't you run when you saw I was still alive?"

Jimmy's blood turned ice cold then. _Holy_. _Shit._ His friend figured it out.

Weeks grabbed the gun off the table then and pointed it at Castle. He saw the dark expression on his friend's face return.

"How long have you known?"

"You mean for certain? Enough to say bet on? Castle's smile was ice cold. "Not until now. Not until after you grabbed the gun."

_Fuck. _Weeks nodded. He knew what was next. Frank would go to Sandoval with this and then Special Agent Jimmy Weeks would be bitch slapped all the way to fucking prison. No. He couldn't allow that to happen. He looked at Frank, raising the gun so it would be a clear shot to his friend's head. "I'm sorry, Frank. I swear to God, I'm sorry."

"So am I, Jimmy." his friend replied.

Weeks' index tightened. _This time stay dead, motherfucker. _He squeezed the trigger.

**Click.**

Castle reached into the pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a handful of bullets.

"Oh no." Weeks said in a very small voice.

"Oh yes." Frank replied. "I may not have known for sure, but I'm not a betting man."

"Okay." Jimmy said frantically. "Okay. I'll tell you who did it, Frank."

"You did it, Jimmy." his friend replied as he rose from the armchair.

"No. That's not right." Weeks corrected. "Saint did it. Howard Saint."

"No." Castle said. "You did it. And you know what? I do know why you called me that day. Because you were sick. And you needed my help. That's what friends are for, right Jimmy? Well guess what? I'm here now. I'm here to help you." He held out the bullets.

"What are those for?" Weeks asked numbly.

"You were in the Marines. You figure it out." Frank replied.

Jimmy picked up Castle's drink and drained it. "So you're going to kill me."

"I'm not going to do anything." Castle replied. "You are." He tossed him a bullet.

Weeks caught it and nearly shit in his pants._ This wasn't his friend_. Weeks thought. This was some imposter in his friend's skin. What the hell happened to the righteous asshole that stood up for the murderous prisoner of war? _Where the fuck did he go?_

"Frank?"

Castle drew his own gun then and pointed it at Weeks' forehead. He cocked the trigger. "Let's say good-bye like the friends you were. Not like animals."

Weeks froze for a moment. _Wait. Right there. _Something definitely wasn't right. He exhaled deeply. "Castle. Wait. Listen to me. Frank. Let's talk. Please. Something's not right here."

"You're right. I'm not Castle." his friend replied. And Weeks felt his bowels move. "Castle died with his family. Because of you." Jimmy stared at his friend for a moment and found himself chambering the round, turning the barrel toward _himself_.

"I can't." Weeks said, almost pleading.

"You can." his friend replied. "You will."

Jimmy Weeks found himself praying for the first time in a long time. They said if you asked for forgiveness up until the last minute, maybe you could be saved. Maybe they were right. "Okay, Frank. Okay..." he paused. "I'll say hi to Maria and Will for you."

"Where you're going? I don't think so, Jimmy. Sorry."

Jimmy paused. Perhaps his friend was right. In the end, when he thought about it, he really didn't give a crap about Frank or his family. If he did, he wouldn't have sold them out to save his own ass. But, God. It was (_oh please._) the drugs. And the _(I don't want to be alone)_ alcohol. Crap like that can bring you down and change you into a _(in hell)_ monster. He looked into his friend's eyes then. He didn't recognize him anymore. _I'm sorry. Frank. I'm so incredibly sorry. I did this. I did this to you. I'm sorry Maria and Will. Please. Please._

"Pull the trigger, Jimmy. Pull the trigger."

_I ask for forgiveness. _Jimmy shut his eyes. And squeezed.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

He holstered his gun and watched emotionless as the corpse slumped to the floor with a careless thud. He removed his Rolex then. The same watch that Jimmy Weeks had given Frank Castle for his retirement party and dropped it onto the unmoving figure. He walked across the apartment to the door, opened it, and without looking back exited. The sound of the door clicking into place was final and the echo resonated off the walls of the empty apartment even after he left.

-fin.


End file.
